


Blessed Hands: The Other Chapter One

by ArvenaPeredhel



Series: Blessed Hands Will Break Me: The Appendices [4]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, semi graphic descriptions of injuries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-03
Updated: 2020-04-03
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:08:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23461510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArvenaPeredhel/pseuds/ArvenaPeredhel
Summary: Blessed Hands Will Break Me almost turned out very differently; this is a discarded alternate version of chapter one.
Series: Blessed Hands Will Break Me: The Appendices [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1658740
Comments: 4
Kudos: 39





	Blessed Hands: The Other Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> So I knew from the beginning of writing this that I didn’t actually consider it part of my personal canon. It began as a crackfic called “Have Harp, Will Travel”, in which Maglor finds out Fingon took a harp to Angband instead of a sword, but for a while it wound up being BH’s first chapter instead. However, I decided I wanted to write based on what I thought had actually happened, so this whole concept was discarded. Enjoy things like Alcarinquar working for the other side, and a definitive answer to the question of whether or not elves have matches!

For Kanafinwë Macalaurë, it had been a long and somewhat sleepless night, brought about both by concern over the upcoming harvest and the fact that his brothers were being particularly uncooperative (Curufinwë, in particular, had been in a snit the previous evening and refused to speak to anyone for reasons best left undisturbed), and so he was bleary-eyed and tired when he entered his study with a mug of tea and prepared to attack today's stack of supply requisitions and duty roster changes and assorted minutiae.  _ That's one thing about being King no one ever tells you, _ he thought with a sigh as he sat down,  _ there's far too much paperwork and not nearly enough time for more important things. _

But then he saw it.

On the desk, in front of the supply requisitions and permission forms and progress reports, was a letter.

A letter that hadn't been there the previous night.

A letter with Findekáno's handwriting on the envelope.

Frowning, the harpist sank into his chair and set his tea on the table. He was tempted to ask the guard at his door when the mysterious missive had arrived, but that would only delay the inevitable.  _ Ambarussa said that they fought in the woods, and that Findekáno didn't want to speak to me... why would he send a letter? Don't be ridiculous, Macalaurë, it's probably to eviscerate you in writing. Pityo didn't even want to repeat some of the things he called you. _

_ I ought to burn it.  _

But the more he looked at the unassuming paper, folded tightly and sealed to eliminate the need for an envelope, the more he doubted he could.

_ "Á ercat,” _ he murmured at last, the thin blade of his belt knife easily cutting the wax from the creases. Once that was done and the letter was unfolded, he sighed and settled back to read.

"Kanafinwë," he began, and frowned.  _ He's never used my  _ essi _ before, why would he start now? He's furious. He must be. Furious or absolutely formal. _ The exhausted King took another sip of his tea and pressed on. "Kanafinwë, I write to you in haste. Something has happened, and while I doubt your people should know of it until the situation has improved I did not dare keep this from you a second longer than absolutely necessary."  _ What? Has Nolofinwë decided to retaliate, then? Are we on the eve of civil war and even more bloodshed? _

_ Finish the letter, _ a contradicting thought commanded,  _ and we'll see. _

"I dare not say more, and in fact oughtn't to have written this to begin with, but if you would make all haste to our encampment I shall tell you all. Come in secret, and alone. Findekáno."

_ Well,  _ he thought, _ that resolved absolutely none of my questions. At least he did not curse me for a faithless traitor. But now what do I do? If we are on the brink of war, our people should know of it, we must prepare -  _

_ \- he didn't say a word about war. Only to come, and come quickly. _

_ If I want answers, I shall have to do as he asks. It will be the better part of the day before I arrive, if I wish to be unseen. _

"Alcarinquar," he called, and the sentry opened the door to his study.

"Yes, your Majesty?"

Macalaurë tried not to make a face at the honorific. "Should anyone ask, I am indisposed for most of today and the better part of the night."

“Indisposed, my lord?”

“Officially, I am attempting to tackle most of this mountain of paperwork." he said. "Unofficially, I will be making a discreet visit to my cousins across the lake." At Alcarinquar's raised eyebrow, he sighed again. "I received a cryptic letter from Findekáno. Something important has happened and he wishes me to know of it, but he dared not write it down."

The golden-haired soldier's eyes went hard. "Is it to be war between us?"

The King's face fell. "I fear so, but I will not speculate. Can you make my excuses? I shall have to move quickly."

His guard nodded, the hint of a smile on his lips. "Will you leave by the door, or shall you escape through your window?"

In spite of himself, Macalaurë laughed.

* * *

Tyelkormo was the woodsman, but he'd done what he could to teach his brothers well; Macalaurë made a mental note to thank his sibling when he was easily able to slip past the Nolofinwëan sentries on the edge of the forest. It was after sunset - he'd taken a few hours to wait in the woods and make his approach easier in the darkness - and his cousins' camp was slowly shifting, lighting lamps and casting long shadows over the ground. He watched from just under the trees, hoping against hope to spot Findekáno.  _ If you do see him, how will you signal him? You can't possibly fool anyone here - even if you are dressed for the wilds, they'll know you in an instant. _ As he crouched in the woods, not for the first time he regretted coming.  _ You'll be shot. You'll be imprisoned. Valar know what they'll do to you. They hate you, and they have every right to hate you.  _

_ But Findekáno doesn't, or else he hates me less than the others, or else he wouldn't have written. _

A cold dread worked its way down his spine.  _ Unless... unless this is a trap. _

Only a few decades prior he wouldn't have even dreamt of such a thing, but now, with Nelyo gone and his father dead, it seemed all too plausible.

_ You're being foolish. He's your cousin. He'd never do that to you. _

_ You burnt the ships, did you not? What do you think they'll do to someone like you? _

_ But Findekáno wouldn’t - _

_ \- can I be sure of that? _

Macalaurë felt his heart sink, and he tightened his grip on the tree he'd leaned against.  _ I can't be sure. Not after everything that's happened. But… _

_... but I'll have to chance it. There's not another choice. No one's watching the side door to that hall, and the sentries aren't close - if I move quickly I might make it in unnoticed. _

_ Right into their trap. _

With a quick prayer to Nessa for speed, and an appeal to Nienna that if this was in fact an attempt at capture his relatives might show some undeserved mercy, the High King shifted his small pack higher on his shoulders and darted across the grass. He was soon in the shadow of the larger building, and thankfully on this side the camp had already gone to bed. Quickly Macalaurë moved to the side door -  _ it's not locked, my luck is holding _ \- and opened it. He bit back a sigh of relief and slipped inside. His hands were shaking as he pulled the door shut after him, his heart pounding too loudly in his ears for him to hear the footsteps coming up behind. When a hand clamped firmly onto his shoulder and shoved him into a darkened corner he flinched, looking up at his assailant - 

\- and into the frantic face of Findekáno, who was doing his best to put himself between the High King and the rest of the building.

"What are you  _ doing _ here?" his cousin asked. The words were a desperate whisper.

"You... you wrote me... you told me to come..."

"I expected you hours ago in daylight! If my father knew you were here..."

Macalaurë felt his blood turn to ice. "So it is to be war, then."

"What? What are you talking about?"

"Why else would you have summoned me if not to warn me of war?"

"You - you thought - oh, Valar, you are an  _ idiot,” _ Findekáno groaned, body tight with frustration.

“But you said - !” Macalaurë began, only to be forcibly silenced by the other’s hand on his mouth when there were footsteps at the far end of the corridor. As they drew closer, Findekáno seized him by the wrist and took off around the corner at an almost-run, dragging his cousin behind.

"Where are we going?" Macalaurë asked, as loudly as he dared. There was no response, and the next minute passed in a blur of motion and sharp turns and sudden stops to hide in the shadows before they at last came to a halt outside a closed door at the end of a short hallway. For a moment there was silence filled only by heavy breathing, and then Findekáno approached the door. Before he opened it he turned back to face his cousin.

"Don't think I've forgiven you for the ships." he said, and there was real venom in his voice. "But you needed to know about this." 

_ Know about what? _ a thoroughly confused Macalaurë wondered to himself, but there was no further time for thinking as the door opened onto a small room. The air from within was thick with the smell of herbs and salve.  _ It smells like our healing wing... what in the Iron Hells is going on? _

Urged on by Findekáno's eyes, he slowly made his way inside. When he'd entered, his cousin followed, shutting and locking the door behind them.

"We can be a little louder in here," he said, fumbling with a small packet drawn from a pouch on his belt. "But not by much."

"Now are you going to tell me what's going on?" Macalaurë demanded, but his voice died as a match was struck, sending light streaking out into the darkness. A moment later Findekáno lit a candle and held it aloft, revealing a grim scene.

They were in a small room dominated by a large bed. An equally small window was set high in the wall, and below it was a battered chair draped in blankets as though someone had been sleeping in it. Several low tables on the far side were laden with dried herbs and bottles of unidentifiable liquid and various surgical implements, and in the corner was a basket full of bloodstained bandages. A tray on the nearest table held several pieces of dark metal, looking uncomfortably like shackles and chain that had been cut apart.

But it was the occupant of the bed that held the High King's attention. He stared openmouthed at the unconscious nér who lay outstretched upon it, still and barely breathing. Scars and welts and barely-healed wounds covered almost every inch of visible flesh, and everything else was swathed in white bandages. Close-cropped red hair seemed all the more stark against his pale skin. A crude but sturdy metal brace supported his right shoulder, and his right wrist was splinted and wrapped in bloody gauze. He had no right hand.

Even in the low light, Macalaurë knew him.

“No,” he said softly, and sank to his knees. “He... you... you  _ found _ him?”

Findekáno put one hand on his shoulder. “I told you that you needed to see this,” he said.


End file.
